Chapter 19
Now
“Scarlett, wake up.” There’s a pause. “Scarlett, please open your eyes. You’re scaring me.”
The words sound like they’re coming from the end of a long tunnel, muffled and far away. The loud smack of hands clapping next to my ear jolts me into consciousness, and I gasp like I’ve been shocked by a doctor’s paddles. “That counts,” his voice says on an exhale.
I blink my eyes open, a worried face coming into hazy focus. Ryder. “What happened?” I croak.
“You fainted,” he says, shifting the throw pillow behind my head, smoothing my hair off my face.
I’m on the couch in my rental house. Did I swoon at the sight of him?
How embarrassing. “I caught you before you hit the ground, so I know you don’t have a concussion, but it took you a while to come to.
” His face is etched with concern, a deep groove carved between his brows.
“I didn’t call 911, but I’m still thinking about it. ”
“I’m fine,” I say in a garbled slur, trying to sit up, but he stops me with a hand on my arm.
“Don’t get up. Stay right here while I grab you something to drink, okay?”
I mumble something incoherent as he heads for the kitchen, and I hear his muttered curse when he opens the fridge.
“There’s barely any food in here. Is this the problem?
Have you eaten anything today?” I hear the sound of crinkling cellophane—he must be getting into that monstrosity of a gift basket—before he’s back, perching on the edge of the sofa.
“I ate about ten thousand calories with you last night,” I rasp, my limbs heavy and limp. I feel like I’m moving underwater. “Should last me through the winter.”
“She’s got jokes, that’s a good sign. Drink this,” he instructs, holding a bottle of water to my lips.
“What are you, a doctor now?” I tease half-heartedly, but I do as he says, gulping down several mouthfuls.
When I’m done, he sets it on the coffee table…
right next to a bouquet of violets. Awareness comes flooding back, making my head throb.
I’m disoriented and foggy, my brain filled with static, like it’s frozen mid-reboot. I feel shaken up like a snow globe.
His eyes haven’t stopped scanning me. “No, I just play one on TV.”
“He’s got jokes.” The water’s revived me a bit, so I sit up a little and attempt to straighten my dress, which is now a wrinkled mess. My hands are clammy, and I’m shaking and sweating at the same time. My body temperature is all off.
I glance at him, and he’s pinching the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed. He’s looking a little unwell himself. “Are you okay?”
He exhales a breath. “I mean, not really. You scared the hell out of me.” He sags back against the couch, his palm resting on my leg like a tether.
I love this man. The thought blooms inside me, desperate for air, like a fledgling flower cracking through concrete. “You’re cute when you’re worried.”
“You fainting is not cute.”
I reach over and find his hand, threading my fingers through his and squeezing. “I’m fine, Ry. Really.”
He lolls his head my direction and looks at me sidelong, and I send him a small smile of reassurance. He brushes his thumb across the back of my hand, and the tension stretches taut between us, his brown eyes softening the longer we hold each other’s gaze.
I have to tell him.
He pats his lap. “Come here,” he says softly.
I scooch down the couch, laying my calves across his lap. He slides my heels off and sets them on the floor, and when he starts massaging my feet, I let out a moan.
“So tell me something,” he says, his thumbs digging into my arch with gentle pressure. I’ve missed these magic hands. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad I can still make you go weak in the knees, but is there a reason you’re fainting at the sight of me?”
He’s given me the perfect opening, but now that the moment’s upon us, I lose my nerve. “Aren’t they expecting us at the concert?” I dodge. “We should get going.”
He keeps kneading in a steady rhythm, his fingers moving up to the ball of my foot. “Scarlett, you just fainted. We’re not going to the concert.” His tone is one of calm authority, like he’s dealing with a recalcitrant child.
“But I wanted to hear the song without crying!” I wail in despair.
He blinks at me, his fingers pausing. “I’m starting to regret not calling the paramedics.”
I slump back against the cushions, defeated. “It’s just, I had a whole plan for how tonight would unfold, and now it’s all screwed up.”
“Does the plan include explaining why my showing up with flowers made you pass out?”
I swallow heavily. I guess this is it—the point of no return. “Yes. Do you mind if I change out of this dress first?”
“Do you need help?” There’s no innuendo in his question, only concern.
I shake my head, and he nods, squeezing my shin. “I’ll wait here.”
I retreat to my bedroom and strip off my dress, mentally apologizing to the fashion gods (aka my stylist) that this beautiful confection will never see the light of day.
I’m still hot and cold, so I throw on my cutoffs, and after a brief moment of deliberation, reach for the Seafolly sweatshirt buried in the bottom of my suitcase.
If this is the end, at least I’ll have the memory of him to comfort me.
When I walk back into the great room, I pause in the doorway, taking him in. Ryder’s shucked his jacket and rolled his shirtsleeves to his elbows, and I have to fight the urge to bite my fist. Sweet mother of forearms. He’s the most exquisite man I’ve ever laid eyes on.
He hears me lurking and glances over, and when he sees what I’m wearing, he does a double take, his eyes flaring as they trace over me from head to bare toe. His smile builds slowly, his expression brightening like the sun breaking over the horizon.
I walk across the room and band my arms around his waist, and he folds me into his chest, fitting my head into the nook of his neck. He presses a kiss to my temple, and my heart flutters like pages in a breeze. I feel like I’m thawing after years of being frozen. I’ve missed him like a lost limb.
“You’re wearing my sweatshirt.”
“You mean my sweatshirt?” I tease, my mouth curving as I splay my hands against his chest. Ten years. I missed ten years of this.
He pinches a sleeve between his fingertips, his gaze fixed on it like it’s something sacred, before lifting his eyes back to mine. “You kept it. All this time.”
“I did.” I know the gesture says more than words ever could. I never moved on. I always carried you with me.
His smile is shy and soft as he cups my face in both hands and kisses me slowly, tenderly, and the angst roiling my stomach begins to quiet. Maybe he won’t hate you.
He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against mine. “With all the commotion, I didn’t get a chance to do that yet.”
I draw in a shaky breath, emotion tightening my throat. It’s now or never. “We need to talk.” It comes out in hoarse whisper.
“Why doesn’t that sound good?” he murmurs, gently tucking a curl behind my ear.
The fond, familiar touch splinters something inside me, and I have to fight to keep my voice steady. “Because it’s not.”
He looks at me for a long, charged moment before closing his eyes. “Is this where you’re going to tell me you’ve changed your mind? That you don’t want this?” His voice is strained, like the words hurt coming out, like he’s already bracing himself for my rejection.
“No, that’s not it.” I blink hard, trying to hold it together. “But we can’t move forward until I’m honest with you about something. There are things you don’t know. I need to…” I falter, barely able to get the words out. “I need to tell you why I left.”
“No you don’t.”
“I…what?”
He drags a hand through his hair, the movement laced with agitation.
“We don’t have to talk about it. I told you in my letter, I don’t want to look backward, only forward.
If you fell out of love with me, if you hated me, if you cheated on me, I don’t need to know that, Scarlett.
I don’t care what happened back then. It doesn’t matter anymore. ”
My mouth falls open. “Cheated? Is that what you’ve thought?”
His jaw flexes tight. “I’ve thought a lot of things, Scar.”
My guilt multiplies tenfold. “Ryder, I never cheated on you. I could never cheat on you.”
He shakes his head and turns away, digging the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Clearly it does matter, if these are the stories you’ve been telling yourself.
” I take his hands in mine, gripping them, willing him to look at me.
“I think the way I left, disappearing the way I did…it did things to you. Bad things. And I’m really sorry for that, Ry.
I wish I could undo it, but I can’t.” I’ve lost the battle with my tears now and they’ve spilled over, streaking down my face.
“I know you’re angry with me about this, and I’d rather you just be honest about it.
We can’t gloss over it or pretend it didn’t happen.
If we’re going to have any chance of making this work, we need to get everything out in the open. ”
“Fine, you want me to be honest?” he says harshly, and his composure shatters, sharp and sudden as broken glass.
“You want me to tell you how terrible it felt? How numbing myself was the only way I could survive it? You left me at my lowest point, Scarlett. You abandoned me when I needed you the most.” His voice scrapes from him, coarse as gravel.
“I pretended that I hated you because it was easier than admitting I was still in love with you. I felt worthless. My own father didn’t care enough to stick around, my girlfriend vanished without a trace, and then my mom died.
” His chest is heaving, like he’s trying to burn it all out of his lungs, like he’s trying to expel years of pain.
“So yeah, I felt pretty fucking low. Chasing after you felt pathetic. So I gave up and tried to move on.”
“I’m sorry,” I choke out, barely able to draw a breath through my tears, but he’s so worked up, he doesn’t even hear me.
“Things weren’t perfect, I know that, and I wasn’t at my best, but you could’ve stuck with me.
” He’s pacing, like he doesn’t know what to do with all the repressed emotion lashing through him.
“We had a fight, Scarlett. One stupid fight, and I was drunk and an asshole and I handled it poorly, but it wasn’t supposed to be the end of us.
In your letter you said we were in over our heads, and maybe we were, but it didn’t have to break us.
If you hadn’t quit on me, if you hadn’t walked away, we could’ve gotten through it. ”
I don’t bother trying to interrupt this time.
He needs to get this out, exorcise it from his system the same way I do.
It’s ten years of hurt and grief and anger rising to the surface, raw and long overdue.
His words batter me like bullets, but I’ll stand here and take them if that’s what he needs.
I spent so long lost in my own suffering, I don’t think I ever truly grasped the weight of his.
“You were the love of my life,” he says, the words ripping from his throat, “and you left me. I never really recovered. Part of me is afraid you might do it again.”
I’m weeping soundlessly now, my body racked with silent sobs.
“So now that we’ve gotten it all out in the open, just tell me,” he presses, his voice fraying at the edges, ragged and desperate. “Why did you leave?”
Despair wells inside me as I stare into his ravaged eyes, hollowed out by the same grief I carry. He’s just as scarred as I am. I take a deep breath, summoning every ounce of my courage, but my voice still comes out impossibly small.
“I was pregnant,” I whisper, and everything inside me falls to pieces. “There was a baby.”